


Beautiful Things

by Annwyd



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annwyd/pseuds/Annwyd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Inquisition underway, its spymaster takes a short break to attend to a pressing matter from the past--and reminisce about love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Things

You there, yes--would you like to know something about the woman you are seeking? About the Hero of Ferelden. Please, won't you let me buy you a drink?

I understand. You are a cautious man. Certainly, prudence is important in these troubled times, when the sky itself breaks. Order and fetch the drinks yourself, by all means. I will provide the coin. A show of faith, yes? That we may do business well together.

* * *

Few people bother with her name these days, you know. She was once called Neria Surana, though, and let me tell you a secret about her: she is a terrible singer.

Perhaps if she had had training early in life, she could have been passable, but she was a poor elven girl to begin with, and then she was locked up in a Circle Tower--where would she have gotten it? As things stood, her voice was dreadful to hear, full of cracks and croaks.

But her face lit up when she tried. No one ever looked more alive than my love when she sang. How she loved music, and how she made herself a part of every song with that awful voice!

She was utterly stricken with grief and shame when I finally told her how lacking she was in vocal talent. I felt as if I'd stepped on some darling little nug by mistake. Of course, I had to make her a story, by way of apology--stories are in my blood, you know? That is who I am...so, you see, I told her a tale of the raven; I told her of how it tried so hard to sing in the early days of the world. In the end, I said, the Maker was so touched by the raven's efforts that he blessed it. He had already given away all the world's beautiful voices to other birds, so instead he gave the raven charm and wit to spare, to more than make up for its lack of song. "Like you," I told her, "but you are also more beautiful than any bird."

How she smiled, then, and how she laughed! She may not be much of a singer, but her laughter is more beautiful than song. It is important to remember such things. It is important that I cling to the memory of her laughter.

Oh, dear...have I digressed? Truly I beg your pardon. I was giving you advice, was I not? You might look for her in taverns with fine music playing.

Drink your wine, my friend. I know time is short, in this maddened world, but what I have to tell you is important.

* * *

You would rather hear about how the Hero of Ferelden fights, then. I understand; that is useful information to have. I can tell you.

I first saw her fight in a small tavern in a little village long since gone to ruin. I knew from that moment, as she cast her spells with her eyes alight, that she was the one I had dreamt of. She was the one the Maker had called me to. And I knew, too, that I had spent too long merely dreaming, merely waiting for a call.

Do you know what that is like, to wake from months of slumber? To rise from a year of licking your wounds, because one woman shakes you to the core and drags you back to your feet? Perhaps if I tell you more--?

Where was I, then? How the Hero of Ferelden fights.

Some people, the type who are soldiers, usually, they fight with sharp, rough motions, never sparing more muscles than needed for a blow. That is wise enough, a marker of skill, to be sure, but some are different. My love fights with every ounce of life inside her, and believe me when I say that is a great deal. She grasps her staff once and then again as she readies a spell; she moves her whole body with the effort when she casts it. She rushes forward when perhaps she should not.

Somehow she survives each fight, though my heart jumps to my mouth every time she leaps into the fray with lightning flashing from her staff. Oh, I could not truly fear for her; she was too much of a force of nature to die so easily. But when we were side by side in the heat of battle, and she had to push back a lunging hurlock with nothing but the wood of her staff, how I cried out in worry!

When the creature fell at last, she turned and she kissed me over its mangled body. "I wasn't worried," she told me, "I knew you would cut its throat." How she smiled when she put her life in my hands! How worthy she made me feel of holding such a responsibility! I must recall that moment. I must not forget that, once, she trusted me with her back without a second thought.

But I see that my words wander from your purpose, my friend. Is this not what you need to hear? Well, then, we have more time. We have a little more time, at least.

* * *

Do you think, perhaps, that you might track her down through her ties to her people? That is one possibility. When she was the Warden tasked with ending the Fifth Blight almost alone, she did seek out the Dalish clans and build bonds with them to win their assistance.

I knew little of elves before I met her. I had worked with one or two in the past, naturally, but by and large I knew them only as servants in Orlesian estates, pretty creatures who tended to the needs of nobles.

But my love is not _pretty_. Beautiful, yes. But pretty? Oh, no. Her hands were never soft like those of a servant kept as a decoration. They were rough from practicing with staves and scarred with burns from mistakes made with potions. I held them and knew then that she was a person as much as any human being. In this as in so many things, she cleared my clouded eyes. She was not overly patient with my ignorance, nor should she have been, but she welcomed my learning. I am a better woman for it. I remember how she always meets my eyes with her own, never casting her gaze down in subservience. I hold on to that image in my head. When I try now to carry out the will of the Maker, I remember that he wishes his children to treat with each other as equals, and I have no patience myself for those who abuse the elves.

We were speaking of her ties to the Dalish, yes? Indeed, she tried her hardest to find a home with them, after a life locked up and isolated in a prison run by humans. But she did not know which roots made good poultices; she only stumbled on them and cursed the ground in a human tongue. Her Dalish kin had _vallaslin_ on their faces; she only had an old burn scar from a spell gone awry, and a bent nose from where a templar once struck her.

She found no solace with the Dalish, it's true. I know how that hurt her. But that night she sat at the campfire and she watched me as I sang, and there was such peace in her lovely eyes. I cannot forget the way she looked at me then. Not in these dark times.

I'm afraid none of that was useful to you. Or was it? I see by the fear on your face that you have realized who I am. Be calm, stranger. I can hardly draw a bow in these close quarters, and as you see, my hands are empty of knives. Drink your wine and be at ease. We must enjoy our little pleasures even when the world is in danger. Perhaps then most of all, lest we forget what makes it all worthwhile.

What more do you wish to know? I will tell you what I can, but we are running short on time.

* * *

I said that she is beautiful, did I not? Oh, it's true. But my love never had a lady's beauty. She is square and stocky of build, and she always cuts her hair short ever since--she told me once--an accident with a fire spell.

But her smile! No one in all Thedas smiles like my love!

Don't mistake me. She has her weaknesses. Yes, that is what you are interested in hearing! Here is some useful information: the Hero of Ferelden fears the dark. There was rarely true darkness in Kinloch Hold, the Circle Tower where she spent her life--the templars made sure of it, to drive away furtive shadows where conspirators might hide.

When we braved the Deep Roads off of Orzammar, I saw her set her strong jaw against the creeping terror. In the darkness I sang to her to keep her spirits as high as could be. I will not forget the strength I found in comforting her. I must recall that I take pride in such kindnesses.

Nor will I forget that she came to me after we finally settled the matter of succession and left the dwarves behind. I cannot possibly forget the way her shoulders felt beneath my hands as they shook with all the feelings she'd kept hidden.

We were lovers by then, and I knew that though my love had found no harbor with the Dalish, she had a home at my side. I alone am allowed to know her weakness...I treasure that above all else.

So, it's fine that to the rest of the world she is "the Hero of Ferelden." She only needs me to remember her as Neria Surana. And as long as she lives, I cannot lose faith, no matter who or what else the Maker may take from me.

Of course, she doesn't need you.

Did you think I was unaware of why you sought her? I know you had your fortune invested in that mercenary company she destroyed in Denerim all those years ago. Finding that out was child's play to one such as I. You should be honored I spared the time for you, you know? I am a busy woman, and I have more important matters to attend to.

But if I cannot protect my love, what good am I? What good is anything in this world the Maker has abandoned? I needed to watch you die with my own eyes.

Oh, don't get up. You'll find your legs are too weak for it anyway by now. You got your own drink, yes? Of course, you didn't trust me to bring you one. A wise move. But this tavern is staffed by my people, and you used my gold.

You were dead from the moment you paid with a coin scratched like just so.

Please, sit here with me a moment longer, will you? You gambled away any more future than that when you tried to kill my love.

Ah...you are almost gone. But she is waiting for me still. That is all I need to know.


End file.
